Daft Hands

I wouldn't mind asking this lady to interpret my meetings.

Happy Monday!

Spot the Difference

The Sistine Chapel

My friend's foot

/braces self for torrent of abuse

N.B. Idea coined by Ms Cathy Heffernan, esq.

Hello Goodbye

Hmm. It's been nearly a year since I last posted. That's very bad. Very bad indeed. Do you forgive me?

It's been a busy year in the Exclusively Caroline household. We lost two flatmates and gained a crazy Greek lady. The Peckham Ladies took Reims by storm. I entered my fifth year with The Boy. Book Face, our online book club was established, and is dying a slow death. I'm one year older, another year closer to 30, and none the wiser for it. It's also been weddings and babies galore - although not for me!

What else?

Oh yeah. And I didn't win on the National again.

Gutted.

Please Keep Your Wet Bum Off The Seats

I’m sure many of you have at some point in your life listened to that wonderful tune “Donald, where’s your Troosers,” and wondered at the meaning behind these discerning lyrics.

Not many people know this, but this wonderful refrain was actually composed with the esteemed Mister Donald Duck, Esquire, in mind.*

*This may be a lie.

Rumour has it Donald used to wear a very fetching kilt in a glorious pattern of duck-egg blue and yellow, the colour of his Scottish clan. He cut a dashing figure striding through town to pick up his daily bag of breadcrumbs from the bakers. The problem arose when Huey, Dewey and Louie, Donald’s mischievous nephews, decided to make off with his kilt one day and run it up the local flagpole.

Poor Donald was humiliated; his exquisite kilt sullied in such a way. Determined not to let three silly lads get the better of him, he managed to retrieve it, dignity intact. However, every time he wore it out all the ladies pointed and laughed. Even Daisy Duck, her of the smoothest, whitest feathers had been seen to titter when he strolled past. Donald swiftly went from local Lothario to laughing stock.

In despair, Donald called on Mickey and Pluto, his two closest friends. “Mickey,” he cried, “I don’t know what to do anymore. I can’t wear trousers; it’s too hard to find a pair that fit my considerable backside. That’s the thing about being a duck – with this tail I’m every tailor’s (haha) nightmare.”

Mickey took one look at Donald’s wretched face; he knew that this was no laughing matter. He exchanged a brief look with Pluto and with an almost imperceptible nod he whipped out his mobile phone and dialled up Gok Wan.

Naturally when the How to Look Good Naked Team heard of Donald’s sorry plight, they headed straight over. Taking Donald firmly by the hand, Gok lead him down a row of ducks. Fat ducks, thin ducks, ducks with considerable assets, ducks with bills, ducks without, ducks with Mohawks and tattoos. “Darling Donald,” said Gok, looking deep into his eyes, “You must realise you are one sexy duck with the most amazing booty. A butt like that should not be hidden beneath cheap polyester. Let your light shine! Cast off that kilt and show the world your beautiful bottom!”

Clearly Gok is never wrong. And from thereon Donald went forth naked as the day he was born. It must have worked some magic, as he’s now happily betrothed to Daisy.

And now in answer to the stupid question posed to me by ‘Im Up North… Why does Donald Duck wear a towel when he gets out of the shower, but walks around naked the rest of the time? Well, duh! Who wants to walk around with a wet bottom? If you went around visiting people for lunch and leaving wet patches on their designer sofas, you wouldn’t be too popular, would you? Or at least that’s what Donald tells me.

I heard it straight from the ducks bill. Honest.

And there were 101 of them...

Due to my mother popular demand I have posted some pictures of myself as a dalmation.

Why was I a dalmation? It was The Boy's sisters 21st birthday. She was Cruella de Ville. We were her dalmations. I don't make these things up.

You'd have to pay good money to make me do this again...

Dalmations in Swansea

So, JGJones... where's that post you promised me about carrots?

It's been a mad couple of months. I spent all of Christmas laid-up on my proverbial deathbed, hurried back to London and decked myself out in groovy 70's clothes for New Year; then with no further ado I started working at Auntie Beeb with the worlds biggest hangover.

I've already had two programmes out with another one on the way and I still have four months left on my contract. Where I'll go from that, God only knows.

What else? Oh I've dressed as a dalmation. I've seen Colin Jackson, Nick Knowles and Jeremy Clarkson. I went to Swansea for St David's Day and pitied the poor blighter who had to clean the red dye out of this fountain.

I also have a new flatmate. A crazy Greek woman who cooks the best dinners, plays an excellent game of badminton, never stops laughing, and brings her friends over to climb my corridor walls. Seriously.

I adore her!

I'm off on a course next week and I have to come up with an interesting and amusing fact about myself. I've been stumped for weeks... then it came to me.

When I was young, I used to have a pet stick insect called Sticky.

What do you think, guys?

In Case of Emergency, Press Copy & Paste

I try my best, but in this instance my best isn't good enough. I apologise profusely for my shortcomings.

Blog update coming soon.... Promise!

Come dressed as your Screen Icon.

Well I didn't have a cat and a cigarette holder...